


A Hard Day's Night

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:57:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky still hasn't revived after receiving the antidote for the poison Bellamy gave him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hard Day's Night

A Hard Day's Night  
by Dawnwind

"Detective Hutchinson, may I have a word with you?"

Hutch jerked away from his guard duty on Starsky's breathing, startled. Ever since the antidote had been administered at a quarter of four in the morning he'd been sitting, watching, waiting for it to take effect. and revive Starsky from his unconscious state. The fact that he was now hooked up to a ventilator that pushed the air in and out of his lungs at a steady, predetermined rate did not dissuade Hutch from his vigil. He was half convinced that if he looked away for too long Starsky might stop breathing again, as he had done so briefly on the roof of Bellamy's tenement. That time, luckily, only two mouthfuls of air breathed into his mouth had resuscitated Starsky until the paramedics showed up with their equipment and portable tanks of oxygen, but Hutch wasn't taking any chances. Who knew how reliable this ventilator was, anyway? Looked like an old piece of machinery, with its tubing and bellows, any number of things could cause it to malfunction. Even a power outage. He had to be on the alert. Glancing up long enough to ascertain who was speaking, Hutch went back to watching Starsky's chest rise and fall.

"How's he doing, doctor? When will he wake up?"

Wilber Franklin gave a long suffering sigh, and for the first time Hutch realized the man had been awake as long as he had. It was now Thursday, midmorning, a full thirty hours since Bellamy broke into Starsky's home and shot him full of the dreadful compound.

"We need to synthesize more antidote, and this will take some time. Meanwhile, we've stabilized him, but early indicators show that he's developing pneumonia because his lungs were under aerated for so long."

"But you said he was going to make it." Hutch stopped short, chilled by the doctor's words. He concentrated carefully on Starsky's respirations, forcing himself to stay calm. "That once we got the antidote he'd be all right."

"Have you ever known anyone who had a snake bite?" Franklin asked.

What did that have to do with anything? Hutch wondered, but aloud he answered. "When I was fresh out of the Academy, a kid who lived in a new subdivision was bitten by a rattler. I got there first, his arm was already swelling."

"It often takes four or five doses of antivenom, or even more, to rid the body of the snake's poison." He removed his thick glasses, polishing them absently in a habit that Hutch had become familiar with in the last day. "I'm afraid we have to look at your partner's poisoning in the same way. He'll need several courses of treatment, and right now we just don't have the antitoxin ready."

"What are you saying?" Hutch finally tore himself away from his best friend, to stare at the doctor's hangdog face. "He could still die? After going through all that?"

"I have all the resources we can spare working on making more, but even knowing the chemical makeup from the small dose you supplied us with, it will still take some time. And while the chemists are going as fast as they can, these are not chemicals that are standard to our lab, so the supply clerk has been on the phone all morning."

"What if..." Hutch's mind was racing. He knew there were cops crawling all over Dr. Jennings' lab for evidence, but would they even know what to look for if they found it? "Can you give me a list? I can have the people down at Dr. Jennings' lab..."

"I'll see what I can do, yes." Franklin nodded, not smiling but looking almost pleased.

"Starsky, you hear that?" Hutch asked, touching his partner's unmoving hand. "Everybody's pulling for you, hotshot, even if it's taking longer than I expected. You keep on breathing, okay?"

A nurse came in, checking the IV solution running into Starsky's veins and writing information on her notes. Hutch hardly took notice of her anymore, she came in so often. Of course, she'd probably never had a patient like this one before. No one had, and that's what scared Hutch the most. Nobody could give him any answers on Starsky's prognosis. He'd been so positive when he'd burst through those ER doors carrying the antidote like it was the Hope diamond. Starsky's salvation, under the wire, and just enough. Only come to find now that it wasn't enough, and Starsky might not pull through.

Wretched depression weighted Hutch to his chair. He couldn't think beyond the next minute or two. How did one small dose of ingredients, mixed in just the wrong way, do such horrific damage? It had been hell watching Starsky fail throughout the day, and inspiring to watch him fight to stay alert for so long. This couldn't end this way, with him succumbing to the dreadful concoction after the antidote. And all for such a--not trivial reason, certainly not--a father's love for his son was a special bond. Except that Jerome Jennings had lost all sense of reason long before he'd ever devised the horrible revenge. Unfortunately no one had noticed, not even his daughter.

Unable to do much more than rub the back of Starsky's hand with his thumb, Hutch began to sing softly. At first he wasn't even conscious of the song, just something to keep his brain occupied, but little snatches of words kept intruding on him until he actually listened to what he was singing.

"It's been a hard day's night and I've been working like a dog, it's been a hard day's night....when I get home to you....I feel all right." He stopped with a self-conscious laugh. "Not exactly cheerful, huh, buddy?" The strange thing was, it was surprisingly appropriate. In the same Beatles theme, he launched into "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..." Well, now that wasn't entirely accurate.

"You have a good voice."

Startled, Hutch didn't react quite as violently as he had when the doctor interrupted him, but only because he recognized the voice of the woman behind him. "Cheryl?" he asked in surprise, standing to envelope her in a hug. She clung briefly to him, but just as quickly backed away, staring at the figure in the bed. She was the last person Hutch had expected to see there, but on the other hand, she might be the answer to his prayers.

"I...I wanted to see what..." Cheryl choked, her gray-blue eyes brimming with tears. "My father did." She gestured at Starsky, her hand lingering in the air as if she wanted to pet him, soothe him, but wasn't sure she was allowed such a privilege. "Hutch, I don't know what possessed him. This is..."

"Madness, Cheryl," Hutch answered softly. While his irrational, emotional side hated Dr. Jennings, her father, with a passion he'd never previously have imagined, the other more analytical side recognized that the man was far gone in some sort of psychosis brought on by his son's death. It explained everything, and nothing. And brought them no closer to any solution. "But I think you can help us."

"Yes?" Cheryl dug a Kleenex out of her pocket, dabbing at her eyes, but Hutch saw a tiny flag of hope shining there.

"The antidote wasn't enough, Dr. Franklin needs more. The lab crews are swarming over your father's home and lab, surely he must have made more? Left some kind of, I don't know, recipe?"

"They wouldn't let me in." She twisted the tissue into a tight knot. "He--Dad--needed some clothes--for the court appearance. But the police wouldn't let me back in the house."

"They'll let me--you and me. We'll tear every floorboard out, find the chemicals--whatever it takes," Hutch encouraged. He grabbed her arm, not wanting to waste any time. "Maybe they've already found what we need, but nobody knows it yet. You would recognize the formula, wouldn't you?"

"I think so," Cheryl said.

Hutch stopped, looking back at the bed with a pang of fear. He hated leaving Starsky right now. Hated being away for even so much as an hour, when every minute was a precious commodity to be savored. He released Cheryl, bending down to gently graze Starsky's cheek with the tips of his fingers. "Hey, buddy, I gotta go now, but I'll be back. You stay strong, huh?" Starsky moved slightly in his drugged sleep, turning minutely towards the warmth of Hutch's hand. "Things are turning around for us, now, Starsk. Cheryl's here, she's gonna help, too."

"Detective Hutchinson," Franklin said, and Hutch was unaccountably irritated. Ever since Bellamy tried to shoot him in the back, it seemed like everyone was sneaking up behind him.

"Doctor, this is Cheryl Jennings, She has intimate knowledge of the chemicals you need," Hutch didn't elaborate on exactly why Cheryl knew about them, and the doctor didn't ask. "Is that the list? We're going to the lab now--to pick up whatever you need."

"Yes." Franklin's bushy eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline, but he handed the paper over to Cheryl who pushed her glasses up her nose, reading it over quickly. "Many of these chemicals are useless in a medical setting, so we rarely carry any quantity," the doctor explained.

"Yes, I'm certain my fa...the lab has these."

"It's imperative that Detective Starsky get more of the antidote as quickly as possible. He's already had some organ failure--kidneys are shutting down, his respiratory drive is severely depressed, and his liver isn't functioning to normal capacity."

"But this will help, right? Turn everything around?" Hutch asked, galvanized by desperation to move, to obtain whatever was necessary to achieve the final goal; Starsky's complete recovery. That was the only conclusion he would accept

"I want the same outcome you do, Detective," Franklin answered evasively. He poked the earpieces of his stethoscope into his ears, turning his attention to his patient. Hutch had to wait just one more minute while the doctor placed the stethoscope bell on Starsky's chest. None of the monitors went off, nor did Franklin call out for a code blue, he just shifted the stethoscope slightly to the left and listened again. Assured that Starsky's heart was still steadily pumping blood around his arteries, Hutch silently left with Cheryl.

A quick call to Dobey told them that the lab crews had already hauled a majority of the items seized from Jennings' lab back to Parker Center, and the huge quantities of evidence were already being inventoried. Deciding to start there, Hutch drove with all speed the few short blocks to police headquarters, passing Channing Avenue, and Janos' porn studio, on the way. He had the overpowering urge to stop and smash that stupid lens just to exorcise some of the unrelenting rage building up inside him. Starsky's life hung in the balance but everyone else's simply went on as usual. Janos was probably finishing up some lewd scene with the blonde and the gum chewing brunette, and Earl Bellamy's whining widow was arranging for funeral services for her murderous husband. Meanwhile, Hutch had to harness his diminishing wits to unravel the knots of Jennings' insidious scheme, or he'd be joining Mrs. Bellamy at the funeral home.

 _Please, God, no._

His treacherous memory kept reliving the sight of Starsky sprawled on the floor, phone cord tangled around his bare arms, one foot still on the bed--looking dead. Hutch had stood frozen in the doorway to Starsky's room, terrified to go all the way in. Forcing himself to walk those last few feet he'd whispered words of encouragement to himself before reaching down to feel for a pulse in the neck. Starsky had been alive then, and over thirty hours later was still alive. So much for the 24 hour progressive poison. It had taken a lot, but it hadn't taken everything.

Knowing he had to focus on the here and now, Hutch shook his head to banish unnerving thoughts, stunned that he'd been so oblivious to the other cars when driving in midmorning traffic.

Taking his eyes away from the road at an overly long red light, Hutch studied Cheryl's profile, wondering if he looked as wrung out as she did. The tidy little bun she'd started with on Wednesday morning was askew, tendrils of hair escaping every which way, and her sweet face was drawn with fatigue. He was once again struck by the sheer number of people who had gone the distance with him and Starsky. Cheryl, like Dr. Franklin, Captain Dobey and numerous others, had been up and dealing with this horrific situation since the day before. And for Cheryl, the nightmare was only starting, with her father in jail for the crime.

"I must look terrible," Cheryl sighed under his scrutiny, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. It didn't stay, and curled back down over her pale cheek.

"Never," Hutch said truthfully. She wasn't a glamour girl but had an understated beauty, especially in her compassionate eyes. He'd taken her out two or three times, and always enjoyed her quiet humor and intelligence. "You're stronger than you'll ever know."

"I thought my father was the strongest man on earth..." she trailed off. "And see where that got him."

Boxes were piled to the ceiling in the property receiving room. Just the sight of them swamped Hutch in a choking miasma of pessimism. How could they manage? Where to start? Starsky's voice came back to him quoting the old adage about the optimist with his bottle half full, and he shoved away the hopelessness. Nothing to do but fill that glass all the way up again, right?

Don't give in. That had been Starsky's motto all Wednesday . The question was, when did you realize the futility of it all, or did you just eventually go down in flames, brilliant and stubborn right to the end?

"Can you bring down that box?" Cheryl was saying to Myers, the property room clerk. "And those two, marked lab cabinet number five?"

"You think you can find anything?" Hutch asked as the boxes were delivered to them.

"My father, when I worked with him, was very methodical." Cheryl unfolded the flaps on the cardboard box, peering in without touching anything until Myers handed her a pair of rubber gloves. "He put all chemicals away alphabetically. 'A' on one shelf, 'B' on another and so forth. This should have...Yes!" She selected a small brown bottle marked 'Bromo Acetone' and another with a slightly tattered label reading 'Benzyl Cyanide'. "This is the 'Bs', now all we need are..."

"'H' for hydrochloride and 'D' for diffanylamide," Hutch said from memory, grabbing the next box with renewed enthusiasm. He'd been so confident when Franklin first read off that tongue-twisting list, watching the solution drip into Starsky's IV. This was what would save him--this was what would bring him back. And Starsky hadn't even needed the ventilator then, pure oxygen had been sufficient to keep him breathing. But in that 25th hour afterwards, his rapid respirations had turned to grunting, and then terrified gasps for air until Franklin intubated him. Hutch still held out hope--after all, they'd found the antidote, right? Like Hercules, they'd completed a monumental task only to find that success wasn't enough.

He poked at the bottles filling the carton, noting with numb detachment that his hand was shaking, but still didn't see what he was looking for. "Cheryl, no diffanylamide." His voice cracked on the difficult word, and he had to stop speaking for a moment because he could barely breathe suddenly.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, dropping into a chair clutching a tattered sheath of papers.

Hutch stumbled in his haste to get over to her, nearly tripping over the box. He tried reading the papers over her shoulder but she'd crumbled them too badly for him to make out anything. She was sobbing, her breath coming out in hard, anguished gulps. "Cheryl?" He brushed that one errant curl back behind her ear, waiting out her distress.

"The proof that he was going to kill you both," she said after a time, smoothing the out wrinkles to point to a particular passage. "It's here--a diary of sorts. He made much more drug, but didn't want his lab assistants finding out, so it's labeled 'Jennings Solution'."

There was a stoppered bottle in the box at her feet with a hand written sticker affixed to its side, and for a moment Hutch didn't want to touch the deadly poison. This simple clear fluid was killing his partner? He wanted to heave the bottle against the wall, except that spilling it might endanger others. "Is there more antidote? He had a syringe in his desk, there must be a vial he drew it up out of?"

"Jennings Solution," Cheryl pondered, her tears marginally under control.

"He found a solution to end his suffering over your brother's death."

"It won't say antidote, that's too obvious. Remedy? Nostrum?"

"Elixir." Hutch found the innocuous bottle amongst a forest of similar receptacles crammed into a shoebox marked empties. "Jerry's Elixir of Life."

"Take it to Starsky," she whispered. "I'll keep looking for the other stuff in case the hospital needs to make another batch."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Once again Hutch had to wait interminable minutes while the hospital technicians verified the contents of the vial, but all tests proved the elixir to be the antidote. His hopes rising again, Hutch wished he had the skill to administer the first dose--or was it the second now? But he had to be content to have Dr. Franklin draw up a syringe full and hand it over to a waiting nurse. She wiped the rubber stopper on one side of Starsky's IV tubing and injected the contents into the fluid.

"How long--how long before we know he's getting better?" Hutch asked anxiously.

"Blood tests show that there is still a high level of the original compound in his cells," Franklin explained. "We'll give him several more doses of the antidote, and keep drawing levels. The poison should slowly dissipate--but because his liver is affected, it may take a long time. Days, I'd estimate."

"Days?" Hutch echoed. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going on adrenaline alone. He was exhausted now--how could Starsky survive days of that toxin wreaking havoc on his body?

"It's a wait-and-see game," Franklin said, not taking his eyes off the man sleeping in the bed. "You should get some sleep yourself."

"I can't leave." Hutch felt almost physically ill at the very idea.

"I'm going home for some rest. The doctor covering your partner's case is Dr. Stephanson--he's good. I called him in specifically because he's an expert in poisonings. In fact, I talked to him when the first dose of antidote didn't do as much as I'd hoped."

"Yeah, I trust that he's a good doctor, I still can't leave..." Hutch walked around the end of the bed, taking the chair on the opposite side. "He didn't give up on me," he said simply, remembering the hellish weekend when he detoxed from heroin. Not that many months ago Starsky had held onto him as the need for the drug had nearly ripped Hutch apart. "I can't explain... but he saved my life--just because he was there."

"At least get some sleep," Franklin said softly. "Something to eat."

"Sure, thanks," Hutch agreed absently, going back to studying Starsky's every breath as if each was a marvel of modern science to be chronicled in some medical journal. Eventually the even, measured rate lulled him into a light doze, his head drooping forward until he was half lying on the bed.

The vial yielded three more portions, bringing down the levels of poison with each administration There were still long scary nights of high fevers, when Starsky's malfunctioning nervous system caused such severe tremors he appeared to be seizing. Shoved into a corner to make way for even more equipment and nurses, Hutch could only stand back and watch as the medical staff battled to stabilize Starsky's vital signs. When 'Jerry's Elixir of Life' was used up there was the concoction the lab techs had managed to brew after Cheryl delivered the goods. Hutch was consumed with an overwhelming need to be present when each dose was administered, as if his presence could spur the medicine on, causing it to do its job with maximum efficiency. But in the vast bleakness of those lonely hours after midnight Hutch would rediscover the despair he held at arm's length during the day.

Starsky finally began to rally, his whole body struggling back to regular functioning. His respiratory drive kicked back into gear, his kidneys began to produce urine, and the fever that had intermittently raged throughout the night broke. But even after they took out the endotracheal tube, and wheeled away the ventilator, Starsky still slumbered like some distaff fairy tale character waiting for the spell to be broken.

As he'd done in the past, Huggy showed his loyalty and friendship by bringing food for Hutch to eat, and even a change of clothing. He tried distracting Hutch with brightly colored brochures of the islands, insisting that a vacation to some sun drenched beach was just what he needed, once Starsky was able to travel.

"Aren't travel agents supposed to take classes--training for the job?" Hutch asked, rubbing his head. He'd had a headache for three days, directly behind his eyes, like a dull mallet unceasingly whacking the inside of his skull. It rendered him totally useless to help out with any aspect of the investigation on exactly how Bellamy had gotten to Starsky in the first place. There had only been the one injection site, but drug levels drawn shortly after Starsky arrived in the hospital at four thirty on Wednesday morning had revealed a sedative--something anesthesiologists use to get the patient relaxed enough for surgery, dulling the senses and causing a lethargic heaviness. Hutch couldn't remember the name Franklin had mentioned. The main question was how had Bellamy gotten it into Starsky? And when? Searches of Starsky's house hadn't uncovered anything unusual, and since he'd had dinner with Hutch and Huggy in the hours before he'd gone home, he couldn't possibly have ingested any drugs without their knowledge. It remained a mystery, something to be pondered over the never-ending nights when Hutch couldn't risk falling asleep in case Starsky needed him.

"I did!" Huggy retorted indignantly. "'Get your diploma in only one weekend!'" His delivery put exclamation points on all the words, just as whatever advertisement on the back of some comic must have done. "The Peabody-Sherman Correspondence School."

"Peabody-Sherman?"

"I have an official travel agent's degree--and I can now travel anywhere in the continental U-nited States, and Canada, too."

"This island isn't in the U.S." Hutch pointed to the enticing pictures of bikini clad girls wading in the aquamarine Caribbean sea.

"That takes an additional course, at only nineteen ninety-five per lesson," Huggy informed him haughtily. "I'm studying island by island, and when I finish, going to go visit my cousins in Jamaica."

"You have more cousins than any one man could possibly be related to."

"My father had eleven brothers and sisters."

"No wonder your name is Huggy," Hutch sighed, closing his eyes against the glare coming through the window. It was midmorning again, Saturday this time, and he couldn't remember being any where else any longer. This hospital room seemed like his permanent home.

"Isn't Huggy."

"What?" Hutch's eyes popped open, staring over at the equally astonished brown ones opposite him. Huggy mutely pointed at Starsky who looked back at them with bloodshot blue eyes.

"Isn't Huggy," he repeated.

"Starsky, you promised you wouldn't tell!" Huggy exclaimed, grabbing his hand because he couldn't haul the man out of the bed and give him a full body bear hug. "Man, it's good to see you again!"

"Good t'be back," Starsky rasped, wincing from the force of Huggy's enthusiasm. "I think." He grinned recklessly, a spirit reborn, flexing his fingers once Huggy had released hold.

Hutch could only stand in tearful wonder, thanking whatever deities and cosmic fates had brought about his best friend's revival. He would never again rant against the medical profession. They were all gods in his opinion.

"I'll go call everybody!" Huggy proclaimed. "Dobey, your Mom--she's coming, did you know? Of course you didn't--"

"Huggy," Hutch said softly, pulling him into his arms for the crush he couldn't give to the sick man. "Thanks."

"What for?" Huggy flapped a long fingered hand. "Starsk, I'm frying up a big Huggy Bear special just for you. I'll go make those calls."

"My mom is coming?" Starsky asked, still woozy.

"Plane lands at three thirty this afternoon," Hutch answered, amazed they were having this conversation at all. Starsky had just awakened from what amounted to a coma, but they were chatting so normally. How could he possibly convey all the emotion, all the thankfulness he had right now? There weren't words to describe what had happened over the past four days. The easiest thing was not to talk about it at all. "I couldn't even call her until Thursday night--she had some trouble getting a flight."

"'S okay," Starsky grimaced, swallowing tightly. Hutch helped him raise up and sip water, worried about his pained expression.

"How are you doing, buddy? I can call a nurse..." he trailed off when both a middle-aged nurse and Dr. Stephanson crowded into the room, no doubt alerted by Huggy, the town crier.

Examinations and more blood tests were conducted, leaving Starsky pale and wasted. However, Stephanson said he wouldn't require any more doses of the antidote that the lab had continued to manufacture. Starsky would still need supportive care for at least a week, so that the medical staff could monitor the return of his motor and nerve functions, and assess any permanent damage.

With that distressing news dampening Hutch's effervescent mood, Stephanson slung his stethoscope over his shoulder, admitting he planned to spend the rest of the day typing up his notes. He was hoping to submit the case for publication. "With Starsky's consent, of course," he said to Hutch, with the look of an archeologist who had just uncovered some new and undiscovered civilization. "Fascinating stuff."

Fascinating? Hutch almost laughed at that. He could have lived his whole life quite happily without this kind of fascination. Starsky snored lightly, curled to the left looking much more comfortable than he had in days. Feeling inordinately lightened, Hutch couldn't decide what to do with himself. Was Starsky truly out of danger now? Or did unexpected crises lurk around every corner? It worried him that Starsky had only just recently recovered from bullet wounds on a night Hutch preferred not to remember. Only a few weeks ago, when Starsky was given the okay to go back on active duty, the doctor in charge had warned that he wouldn't be 100 percent for six months or more. How would that unfinished healing affect this current recovery?

He went back to reconstructing the evening before Bellamy injected the drug into Starsky, to keep himself alert. He and Starsky had finished their shift after eight, ending up at The Pits, by almost unspoken agreement, for burgers and beer. Hutch remembered feeling almost too sleepy to drive home, glad that Starsky had the wheel that night. Not a drugged kind of sleepiness, either, just too many long hours and too much work. What he felt now was ten, maybe even twenty times, worse, but he still couldn't sleep, even knowing Starsky would--barring any more unforeseen complications--pull through. But what had Starsky taken/been given to cause such lassitude that he'd allowed Bellamy to shoot poison into his veins without so much as a token protest? Had he stopped for something on the way home after dropping Hutch off? Had he munched a snack at home? The lab crew who searched Starsky's house had concentrated on any open containers--milk, cookies, eggs, flour, and Cheerios had all been tested. None contained a single extra ingredient.

The second time Starsky woke up, Hutch saw the blue eyes open, awareness flooding back in, and also caught an unguarded glimpse of the pain Starsky was still in before those eyes shuttered down. Hutch could read his partner too well, the attempts to hide the pain were all too visible in Starsky's short intakes of breath, tight jaw, and restricted movements.

"You don't have to do that in front of me," Hutch said gently, rubbing his arm with a feather light touch.

"It's the only way I know how," Starsky answered, visibly relaxing a bit with the massage. "Only hurts when I laugh, anyway."

"Then don't laugh." Hutch raised a teasing eyebrow, so completely happy that Starsky was here with all his brain cells more or less intact. "Hey, did I tell you the one about the tall blond Swede and the Pole...?"

"This better not be one of those Polish jokes," Starsky warned, the edges of his mouth curving up in a pretty good attempt at a smile. He, almost more than Hutch, seemed to need the normalcy of their usual banter.

"This Swede had this barber pole..."

"Name a'Hutchinson?"

"You're interrupting me. Now, he had this barber pole, and he took it on a round- the-world cruise--or was it--he found it on a round-the-world cruise?"

"You never could tell a joke."

"Well, the punch line was 'send that up the flag pole and see who salutes?'." Hutch finished off. There hadn't really been any joke, he'd been improvising from the start, but

Starsky giggled with gleeful release, even though he was clutching his stomach.

Hutch smiled, pleased with the results of his impromptu comedy routine. Starsky was an easy mark, he usually laughed at any bad joke. Bursting with happiness, Hutch wanted to shout to the world that David Starsky was back in the building, but he restrained himself, because it was obvious that Starsky was still feeling pretty rocky. Which reminded him of the late night puzzle he'd been unable to solve. "Starsk, what did you do after you left my place? Stop anywhere?"

"No, I was beat." Starsky said breathlessly when he had stopped laughing. "Went to bed."

"But you must have eaten something? Where'd the sedative come from?"

Frowning, Starsky rubbed his eyes, motions slow and careful like it hurt to do anything. "I brushed my teeth and took a leak."

"Damn," Hutch said succinctly, planning to call Dobey the first chance he got. Maybe Cheryl Jennings, too. "Toothpaste. Why didn't we think of that? And you went straight to bed?"

"Yeah--got what, almost four hours a'sleep," Starsky complained. He took a deep, labored breath, replenishing red blood cells with much needed oxygen. Hutch recalled Franklin's explanation that the trauma to Starsky's system had left him severely anemic, and it would be a while before he had any energy at all. "Sure glad you answered the phone," Starsky said almost shyly.

"Almost didn't," Hutch confused, feeling a sharp stab of guilt. What if he'd ignored it? "I was dreaming of Molly."

"Yeah?" Starsky nodded with understanding. "That's terrific, better'n my dreams that night." He pursed his lips together, the conversation tiring him, but Hutch could see the determination, the sheer will to keep going, that had held him up for 24 horrific hours.

Starsky wasn't ready to go relinquish his hold on consciousness yet, even for a short time. "Hey?" Starsky asked. "When does my mom get here?"

"Going to pick her up at three thirty."

"What time is it now?"

"Two thirty."

"Then, I gotta get cleaned up," Starsky declared. "Can't let her see me like this."

"You look much better than you did," Hutch said honestly.

"Yeah, but she doesn't know that." Starsky pushed back the covers, struggling to sit up. When he did so, a look of such overwhelming nausea flooded his face that Hutch grabbed for the nearly empty water pitcher in case it was necessary to catch anything.

"Nah, 'M good." Starsky sounded a bit strangled, but he swallowed, rubbing his belly. "Still got the taste of Aunt Rosie's soup in the back of my throat."

"Bad, huh?"

Starsky sat quietly for some time, taking deep breaths, no longer in such a rush. His head was tilted downward as if it were too heavy to lift. Hutch couldn't quite read his thoughts from that angle, and had some very fatalistic thoughts of his own. "Hey?" Starsky asked finally.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks--for--y'know..."

"Aw, Starsk." Hutch felt ready to weep, that boulder once again lodged in his throat. "I didn't..."

"You gave back the coffin deposit, at least?" Starsky asked. Hutch sucked in his breath as if he'd been gut punched, staring in shock at his best friend. Starsky was laughing again, tears running down his cheeks, both arms wrapped around his belly as if everything hurt, but he didn't care any longer.

This time Hutch really did hug him, hard, feeling Starsky's strength flowing up his arms and into his soul to heal his terrors. This was someone he could depend on, even to the point of death. Apart they were good people, competent cops, but together they were invincible.

"I think you're going to make it." Hutch proclaimed, arms still around him. Starsky was very slightly trembling, the smell of sickness and fear clinging to him, for all his merriment. Just like him to hide the bad times under a joke. "But you're right, you do need a bath."

"Always knew I could rely on you to tell me the unvarnished truth, Hutchinson." Starsky wrinkled his nose, plucking at his hospital gown with distaste. "Go find me a nurse, cause there's no way you're giving me a bath. Did you bring me a clean pair of pants, at least?"

"Got your watch."

FIN


End file.
